


Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

by predictaslash



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Guns, M/M, Research, Target Practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/predictaslash/pseuds/predictaslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well.  There was that time I set you on fire and then you died.”  Peter’s eyes flash a little and he breathes in and out like he’s trying not to jump across the table and murder Stiles.  “If you’d only had a gun.  Not that it would help.  You can’t shoot one anyway.”</p><p>“Would you like to place a wager on that?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

On Stiles’s eighteenth birthday, his dad slides over a wooden gun case at the breakfast table. It’s simple and classy and so is the pistol inside, a Colt M1911.

“With great power comes great responsibility, son,” the Sheriff says before he takes a swig of his coffee, looking generally unconcerned about giving his son a deadly weapon. It’s probably because Stiles has gone to the range since he was twelve and has been using his dad’s guns to fight evil since sometime around junior year. Now he just actually has his own legal, legit gun. And, oooh, there’s a concealed carry permit in the case, too. Having dads in high places really pays off.

“This is awesome. And solid reference.” There’s a compartment in the case with six different slots with six different bullets with six different labels. Iron, salt, wolfsbane, silver, wooden, regular.

As Stiles is examining each one, his dad elaborates. “I had some help from Chris. I have more of each out in the garage. But take it easy on the silver; they’re expensive.”

“This is great and all, Dad, but I was really expecting a pony this year.” He puts the gun case to the side, taking care to lock it, and grabs his very special, traditional chocolate chip birthday waffles with whipped cream on top.

“Maybe one of those evil winged horses will show up again and you can shoot yourself a pony out of the sky.”

 

“Well, howdy, Cowboy.” Stiles looks at Peter in askance before he remembers that he has his belt holster on today. Something is in town eviscerating all of the cuties of Beacon Hills, and Stiles just knows he’s next on the list--I mean, just look into his eyes. _He’s a bonafide cutie for sure._ So, he’s armed and dangerous...he hopes. Since they have no idea what’s doing it, he has his one size fits all, variety pack magazine loaded and ready to empty into the chest of a monster.

Stiles pretends to tip an invisible cowboy hat in greeting. “Howdy, Partner. I heard trouble’s a brewin’ ‘round these parts.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to play along. I was mocking you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and walks over to the fridge. “Where’s everyone else? I thought this was urgent.” He grabs a bottle of Peter’s fancy, gross sparkling water and then steals an apple from the bowl on the counter. Walking back over to the “war room” table, Stiles bites into the apple and juice immediately runs down his chin. He wipes it off with the sleeve of his hoodie and looks up to find Peter staring at him in disgust.

“It _is_ urgent. But, as usual, it’s just you and me hitting the books.”

“You know Derek and Scott can only read when they want to. And both of them are so terrible at research that they just slow us down.”

“I see. They’re doing us a favor by having us do all of the leg work.”

Stiles just shrugs, boots his laptop up, and reaches for the closest grimoire or bestiary. They sit in a comfortable silence for a while, each of them very serious about figuring this puzzle out. Stiles for the sake of knowledge and safety and saving others, Peter for the sake of his own ego--not knowing something gets him every time.

“Packing a piece now that you’re barely legal?” And there it is. There’s a little edge to Peter’s voice that Stiles has never heard before, but he’s not too worried about it. Just flips the page and keeps taking notes.

“Not much different than running around with my dad’s gun when I was jailbait.”

“Hmm.” And that, in Peter speak, is a non-committal, trying-to-start-shit-and-make-you-doubt-yourself hmm. It means Peter wants to pick a fight with Stiles for no real reason other than to snark at each other. Stiles wishes Peter would just get over himself and say what he really wants for once. But then, he wouldn’t be Peter.

“I’m still a crack shot.” Silence. The turn of a page.

“It just must be so hard to be so helpless.” _That you need a gun_ lingers in the air. Stiles is anything but helpless and he knows that Peter knows that. But, unlike Peter, Stiles can play along.

“Must be so hard to be only a short range weapon without any experience with long-range.”

“My claws and teeth have always done the job before.” Ugh, he hates when Peter uses his sexy voice during non-sexy talks. Peter’s teeth and claws are not sexy. _They aren’t._

“Well. There was that time I set you on fire and then you died.” Peter’s eyes flash a little and he breathes in and out like he’s trying not to jump across the table and murder Stiles. “If you’d only had a gun. Not that it would help. You can’t shoot one anyway.”

“Would you like to place a wager on that?” Because of course Peter can’t just say _wanna bet?_ like everyone else.

“I don’t really like to take advantage of people like that. Because you’re gonna lose.”

 

Stiles only feels a little guilty about their break from research. Yeah, people are dying, but why do they always have to do everything? He can’t be on 24/7. He tried that once and then his brain was extra susceptible to a chaos demon. He’s gotta relax from time to time.

He never imagined relaxing would mean teaching Peter Hale how to shoot a gun. But, hoo boy, is this fun.

“Your stance is the worst I’ve ever seen.” He’s standing behind Peter and to his right; he can see Peter’s jaw clench as he narrates exactly what he’s doing wrong. Peter hates not being the best and smartest at something, he hates not being the teacher, he hates not being in charge. He refuses to adjust his stance and pulls Stiles’s gun up, holding it with one stiff, fully extended arm, the other hanging at his side. “Glad I filled the clip with regular bullets. For when you accidentally shoot yourself.”

BANG

Peter’s arm, his supernaturally strong arm flies up and the bullet misses the target by a good four feet. Even a werewolf is no match for unanticipated recoil. And he’s sure that Peter’s ears are ringing ten times worse than his are.

Stiles is really glad they decided to do this out in the preserve rather than the station firing range. Peter looks embarrassed and murderous, like he’d snap at anyone who even looked at him the wrong way or mentioning his truly awful attempt at shooting.

“Well, at least it didn’t knock you down.” Peter growls without looking at him, but Stiles isn’t scared. He walks up and holds his hand out and after a second, Peter places it in his hand, gentle, careful. Stiles knows what Peter thinks of guns--like fire, they are a coward’s tool, a hunter’s tool. But that doesn’t mean that Peter can accept that hunters are better than him at something, that Stiles is better than him at something.

“So, you need to keep your body loose. Don’t tense up in anticipation. Extend your arm out, but don’t lock your elbow.” As he goes along, he shapes his body to each step in demonstration. “Bring up your hand to wrap around the butt of the gun and your other hand, like so. Square your shoulders. Take aim with both eyes open, breathe in, then shoot on the exhale.”

BANG

He hits the plastic water bottle right in the center of the logo and water flies everywhere. It’s kind of pretty. When he turns back, Peter looks equal parts turned on and displeased. What it must be like to be constantly at war with yourself…”Would you like to try again?” You know, Stiles is actually a pretty good teacher. Peter holds out his hand now, and Stiles hands his gun over.

And then he goes right up behind him so that there’s barely an inch between their bodies. Peter tenses for a second before Stiles feels him relax. Stiles uses a foot to gently kick Peter’s feet apart. He moves Peter’s hips with one hand. He rolls his shoulders back, then slides his hands down Peter’s arms to keep them from locking. “Take aim,” he whispers right into Peter’s ear as he takes a step back to give Peter room. “Now breathe in.” He watches as Peter breathes in and out in tandem with Stiles, following his directions to a tee.

BANG

A can goes down. Stiles is pretty sure that Peter was aiming for the one next to it, but whatever. “See?”

Peter turns back around, trying not to smile. The look of genuine joy on his face is really strange when it’s not in the context of revenge. It’s honestly a little off-putting.

“I told you I could shoot.” Peter puts the safety on and then slides the gun back into Stiles’s holster. At that moment, Stiles wishes he had worn the thigh holster instead. But then suddenly that doesn’t matter because Peter’s fingers skim down from his waist to the outside of a thigh. “We didn’t set the terms of the bet. What do I win?”

And there’s Peter’s trademark smirk, back on his face where it belongs. Stiles wants to knock him down and kiss it off his face. But he restrains himself. “How about double or nothing?”

“More shooting?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Hmm, I’m intrigued.”

“There’s something else we get to do now that I’m barely legal. Betcha I can deepthroat better than you.” Peter’s eyes are positively glowing and Stiles hopes this false confidence isn’t being betrayed by his nervous heartbeat. Hands come up to hold him by his hips, to pull him closer to the warm body in front of him. Claws ghost along the bottom of his shirt, causing him to shiver.

“Oh, sweetheart, you know I can’t pass up on a bet I know I’ll win.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick thing because I'm stuck on the ones I realllllly want to finish. Hope you liked it.


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